


Only Left-Handed Endeavors

by roseofgalaxies (callmelyss)



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Amorality, Canto Bight, Crime, Deepthroating, Gambling, Hand Jobs, M/M, Minor Violence, Rough Oral Sex, Sex for Favors, The Galaxy's a Complicated Place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:06:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21777256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmelyss/pseuds/roseofgalaxies
Summary: DJ watches, curious, as the beaten man levers himself up onto his hands and knees, slow, lifting one gloved hand to scrub at his face. Despite the blood on his upper lip, he doesn’t seem the type to be knocked flat in a Canto Bight alley, nothing of that desperation, the dreading look of a sentient who’s pawned their last bauble.—Years before the First Order emerges from the shadows, a thief and a young officer meet on Cantonica.
Relationships: DJ/Armitage Hux
Comments: 14
Kudos: 50
Collections: Star Wars Rare Pairs Exchange 2019





	Only Left-Handed Endeavors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Filigranka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/gifts).



> Dear Filigranka, I was so intrigued by your DJ/Hux ship that I had to try it. I hope you enjoy this small treat.
> 
> —
> 
> For all readers: neither Hux nor DJ are nice people here. The sex is entirely transactional, but consensual. Hux has agency and the opportunity to refuse, initially and after it starts. Of course, given the two of them, an inevitable bit of philosophy crept in.

The lights of the Canto Bight casinos are always shining—09:00 or 23:00, it doesn’t matter, the interiors a sparkling riot, chimes and shouts from the tables, the machine, the rumbling of the racetrack below, tinkling crystal, fizzing champagne, all of it the same, constant. More than a few gamblers have stumbled, stepping into the hazy desert morning, emerging from that counterfeit glitter. If they do. It is, of course, possible to spend a month on Canto Bight without glimpsing the rest of city, the city under the city, where Cantonica’s star still rises and sets over the beach, the false sea, the buildings, the sentients trudging homeward, as any other star in any other system may.

No, this place isn’t special, no different than any other city, except that it’s declared itself so and been believed. And to a point, that’s all that counts.

DJ leaves early, his pockets stuffed and clinking. He’s had a good night, no few negligent gamesters, jewels and chips and credits left regrettably unattended. Ident cards, too. A slick, small mem-stick, hopefully the sort safeguarding valuable information. He’ll auction it off to the highest bidder. Give the owner a chance to buy it back with all the others. He’s not heartless. He smiles. Yes, it was a good night.

The city under the city is a labyrinth, narrow walkways, the unlucky curled at the junctures of the path, possessing scarcely more than the shirts on their backs, some less than that, stripped bare. The unobservant might declare luck the highest deity here, but DJ’s never much believed in the idea. Luck can be manufactured, wealth redistributed, transportation commandeered. One simply needs an opportunity, time, breath in the lungs—and a good lock pick never hurts either. No, what the poor souls shivering on the sandstone lack is resilience, persistence. They’ve collapsed under the weight of their failures.

He doesn’t fault them, unpracticed as they are. The galaxy is unkind, always. 

He hears the sound of the beating before he sees it, rounding a corner with his hands in the pockets of his long coat, shoulders slumped, posture noncommittal: _I don’t want no trouble_ , it says. It’s two crime syndicate enforcers, near-human and burly, and their quarry’s already down, balled up like a grub to protect those soft, fragile places on the abdomen, both arms thrown over his head. Not new to this sort of treatment clearly. Enduring. The enforcers kick at the prone figure a few more times. Not so very hard—it’s early, and they’ve made their point, and they get a sharp yelp for their troubles, more in shock than pain. 

One of them hawks phlegm into the street before they plod away.

DJ watches, curious, as the beaten man levers himself up onto his hands and knees, slow, lifting one gloved hand to scrub at his face. Despite the blood on his upper lip, he doesn’t seem the type to be knocked flat in a Canto Bight alley, nothing of that desperation, the dreading look of a sentient who’s pawned their last bauble. No, he's in plain clothing, sturdy boots, a cap drawn over red hair. Meant to be everyday, unnoticeable, and extraordinary, remarkable for that fact. DJ knows, better than most, how to say _don’t look at me_ with the right clothes. This isn’t that. It’s how a man who’s lived his life in uniform thinks civilians dress. And so: a uniform all the same.

Too intriguing.

DJ isn’t prone to philanthropy, but he saunters, slow, sidling, over to the man, weaving as he does. “They hit harder at night,” he observes.

He glances up, rimy green eyes and long, downy lashes and disdain, and barks a short laugh. “Syndicate thugs,” he spits, spraying red. A bitten lip, a bloody nose, both already swollen. Otherwise: sharp, vulpine features, a soft chin. And that Imperial intonation, unmistakable, deliberate, even with the clogged quality of his voice. “Sloppy.”

DJ reaches down to cup his chin, and the man makes a low sound of offense— _how dare he—_ the swoop of both eyebrows coming together swiftly. His wariness only diminishes slightly when he sees the handkerchief in DJ’s other hand.

It’s almost a pity to dab the blood from those full lips, but DJ does, clucking gently. “I got a room just up the street,” he says, halting the roll of his _r’s_ , or trying. Thirty years and it still trips him sometimes, holding back the tinge of pronunciation, not pure Basic. “Can get you cleaned up.”

If his crumpled soldier—yes, that’s his bearing as he stands, spine straight, shoulders set back, chin raised—notices, he makes no indication of the fact. His suspicion has not lessened, DJ can see, but he nods all the same. Then, where else is there to go? While bruised and bloody first thing in the morning. “Very well. Lead on.”

* * *

“What do you call yourself?” 

“DJ.” He has other aliases, of course, depending on the situation, but that’s his favorite. The closest thing he has to a real name since the Empire fell, his birth name blown into chunks of rock, debris, with everything else. He studies his nails, chews on the ragged edge of one. “You?”

“It’s, ah. Armitage,” comes the muffled response. He’s bent over the basin in the 'fresher, the accordion door doing little to conceal him. He splashes water on his face, then flinches at the sensation. 

A bad liar, too. DJ smiles to himself. “What brings you to Cantonica, Armitage? Business? Pleasure?”

“Business.” He emerges, patting his face dry. His lip curls. “Though that’s over well before it began.”

“Oh?” He bounces off from the wall, approaching him—one step and then two. It’s a small room he’s renting, just enough space to sleep (when he doesn’t take a nap in the casino’s detention cells). Narrow, and Armitage twitches back from him when he approaches, nostrils flaring. Unaccustomed, perhaps, to being in close quarters. DJ raises his hands, shaking the medkit in one to say _easy_. 

“What sort of business?” he asks as he cracks it open. Brings out bacta and a stim. “Maybe I can help.”

Armitage waves off the latter question, dismissive. “I sincerely doubt it. We’re— _I’m_ trying to make contact with a woman of particular skills. It’s a matter of some significance.” He puffs his chest out at this.

“Life and death, is it?” DJ sing-songs. He caresses his cheek, leaving a streak of bacta, and at this, Armitage doesn’t flinch. There’s something remote in his eyes, cold and finished as a white dwarf.

“Far more important than that,” he intones, with the ease of repetition, practice, the trill of an orator. “A great cause.”

“Greater than life and death?” DJ affects surprise, withholding his amusement. The galaxy doesn’t lack for causes. Or zealots. And here one has fallen at his feet, oddly enough.

“A return to order.” Armitage licks his lips. Far away now, that look. “Triumph over chaos. An end to waste and negligence. As it should be.”

 _Control_ , _power, glory,_ he doesn’t say, but that, too, without a doubt, as it always is. For whoever’s banner he carries, yes, but for him, personally, as well. Not the New Republican cause, but DJ would have guessed as much. He has an eye for soft, Core World idealists, doe-eyed revolutionaries, easy marks. This isn’t one.

No, this is something else. Not new—there is nothing new—but something different.

He brushes his thumb over Armitage’s swollen bottom lip, overly familiar, but he only tilts his face back, out of reach. Haughty, rather than disgusted. 

“And what does your cause require?” It’s the fricative this time, the c, that he lets catch a few times before he continues. Sometimes it finds him unawares, the old language twisting his tongue; sometimes he leans into it. “Weapons?”

He snorts, then winces, nose still tender. “Hardly.”

“Ships?”

Armitage’s gaze darts to over his face, cool, assessing. Wondering, maybe, whether he’s said too much. _Don’t worry_ , _caro_ , he might assure him. _You cultists always give yourselves away_ , _but I’m no bounty hunter_. Finally, his expression smoothes, impassive. “No,” he replies. “Nothing so easy to come by.”

“Who were you looking for?” DJ tries instead. “I could help. I know just about everyone here.” And if he doesn’t, he’s probably lifted their identification, sliced their records, slipped the credits from their pockets, in a pinch.

He’s not a philanthropist. But there’s a taste in the air he recognizes: _opportunity_.

Armitage purses his lips. _Oh, but what choice do you have?_ Reluctantly, he admits, “We believe she goes by the name of Teris. I tried to make inquiries but—“ he gestures to his bruised face.

“The syndicates are protective of their coders,” DJ agrees. “But say I could help you find her. Or someone just as good. What then?”

He arches one eyebrow, skeptical. “Then you would have my gratitude,” he says slowly. “And a thousand Imperial credits.”

At the mention of the money, he tsks in mock regret, shaking his head. “I can’t be the first to tell you those aren’t worth much these days.”

Armitage begins to draw himself up in affront, scowling, but it’s like he’s been pricked, and he deflates again. Looking, suddenly, rather young in the sallow light coming through DJ’s small window. No more than thirty, certainly. _Were you a babe in arms when the Empire fell?_ DJ wants to ask. _Did you even share the same stars with that regime? What do you know of it, any of it, this thing you fight for?_ But Armitage only sighs. “Thank you for the bacta,” he says, settling his cap back over his hair, the brim overly straight, and moves to leave.

He holds out an arm, stopping him. “I could always take another fee,” he suggests. Reaches to tuck Armitage’s hair back for him. It’s a new hat, he sees, unworn.

 _What other fee?_ Armitage doesn’t ask. Not naive in that sense. He only tips his chin, assessing. “You want to fuck me, is that it?” he asks, unbothered. This is nothing in the name of the cause, of course. _What else have you done for it?_

DJ’s slides two fingers over his cheek, under the bow of his lips.

“Ah. Fine.” He shrugs out of his jacket, removes the cap again. Laying both on the bed. “But I’ll have some collateral.” 

No, not so naive. DJ tilts his chin, smiles. Pulls a tangle of metal from his pocket. “My best tools,” he explains.

“A thief,” Armitage sneers, although he takes the picks. Kneels. Hair slipped loose over his brow. Gaze meeting his, unwavering.

There had been that venom out on the street, too. The keen promise of a knife, at the first chance. DJ strokes his cheek again. It’s warm, despite its pallor. “Yes, a thief,” he agrees.

“I might have known. This place is brimming with scum. Let’s get on with it then.” He reaches for DJ’s fly, nimble fingers popping it open, reaching in to touch him.

He’s soft yet, although the first brush of Armitage’s fingers is nice enough. 

“Take off your gloves,” he directs. Corrects him: “No. With your teeth.”

Another silvering of anger, the green of his eyes paling, but he obeys, drawing them off slowly, showing the white undersides of his wrists, the blue veins, delicate-looking fingers. They’re cool on the head of his dick, then tracing up the shaft, stroking him. Not unpracticed. And there is a surge of blood downward, not unwelcome. It’s not a driving urge for him, this, but relieving it is nonetheless pleasant.

“Your mouth,” he reminds him when this touching has gone on for a few minutes, the room silent except for the creak of someone’s footsteps overhead, the sound of the air recycling, and now, the wet sound of Armitage licking his cock, a steady, determined lapping. He kisses the underside before wrapping his lips around the head, sucking generously, leaving a thin, unbroken line of saliva when he pulls off. Smirking up at him again, smug, as he lets the crown drag over his bottom lip. _I know what I’m doing_ , that look asserts. _Sir._

DJ hits him in the face with his half-hard dick, catching him across the cheek.

Not hard, just enough to shock— _is that the best you can do—_ and it does, a smothered cry escaping him. He’s glowering at DJ now, leaning in to take more of his erection, the slick heat of his mouth enveloping him. He’s almost fully hard on Armitage’s tongue; he lets him bob a few times, taking him deeper, throat relaxing. Liking, too, those sweet little noises he’s making, _mm_ , _mhm,_ as though he’s hungry for this. Almost believable. It’s good. It’s pleased before. Men his age. Older.

He doesn’t grab that bright hair out of frustration, no. It simply looks nice to hold. Is—the strands just long enough for him to sink in his fingers. Armitage grunts in surprise, but doesn’t protest, bringing his hands up to brace himself on DJ’s hips as he drags him forward, farther onto his cock, pushing the head down his throat. He holds him there, feeling those smooth muscles contract, spasm around him, the thin fingers on his hips tightening, tears just beginning to overspill his eyes. Then lets him fall back, gasping, wheezing. But before long, Armitage is upright again, reaching for him.

“Again,” he demands, hoarse. “Do it again.”

His mouth is open, willing, when DJ pushes into it, tugging on his hair as he does, as he brings him forward and jerks him back, fucking into his mouth now, letting something go as he does, really does, thrusting into that slick heat again and again, speeding up.

Maybe he should have fucked him, he muses, puffing out air instead of a moan. It’s an appealing ass, soft-looking, but clenched tight, he’d bet the month’s take on it. He could have fingered him. Slowly. Made him spit and curse. Even beg for it. He probably begs nice, the way he talks.

Next time, perhaps.

He fucks hard into his throat one last time, Armitage gagging slightly as he spills into his open mouth, holding him still as he does, giving him no choice but to swallow. Eyes closing, his grip on DJ slipping, his arms trembling from the effort.

When it's over, the two of them breathing harshly, Armitage has the heel of one hand pressed against his own groin. Trying to ease himself.

There’s no reason, really, to drag him to his feet or press him back against the wall. To rub at the hot, hard line of his erection for him and admire the way his head falls back, his eyelashes fluttering when he moans. To bite at that white throat while he opens his trousers for him, bringing him off with short, jerking pulls until he comes with something like a high yip, messing his shorts. 

But then, there’s no reason not to either. And there’s something to be said for the dazed way Armitage looks at him after, those lips fat and full and wet, pupils blown wide, hair a disordered wreck. With his free hand, DJ strokes his cheek again, feeling almost fond. _My darling fanatic_.

He's staring at him, some color in his cheeks at last. Then, his eyes flick down, catching something past him, on the bed behind DJ. “Isn’t that—“ he begins to ask, voice raspy.

Quick, DJ shuffles the sheets over the bit of embroidery, only a fragment of a blanket now and well faded, the language on it almost indecipherable and long-forgotten besides. Or it should be, but this cultist knows it. Somehow. _How?_ He can feel the way Armitage is looking at him, the understanding dawning on his face.

“You’re—“ he starts to accuse. 

He stops at the press of a knife to his belly, where he’s still sticky with his own come. “Now, now,” DJ says, keeping tight control over his tongue, none of that stammer, no, not now. He kisses the corner of his mouth, catching his cut lower lip. “We had a nice time, yes? Let’s not spoil it. We have your coder to find. You paid well enough, hm? Like a pro.”

Armitage regards him coldly. “If you’re one of them, we have no further business here,” he says. A threat, heedless of the blade digging in under his navel.

He points to the Aurebesh on his hat, the only words that matter now. Those on the quilt mean nothing anymore. “Ah-ah. I ain’t one of nobody.”

Incomprehension crawls over his features. “Everyone has a side,” he insists. 

“Everyone has a price,” DJ corrects. “And you've done mine.”

Armitage’s eyes narrow, looking between him and the hidden scrap of fabric on the bed, what he knows it means, where he’s from, mountains and a violet sky. That long lost homeworld. Finally, he nods. “Show me where to find her.”

"Good." DJ retracts the blade, sweeping the hat off his head in exaggerated deference. “This way—my captain?”

He pauses, lip lifting to show his teeth, white and sharp. “General,” he acknowledges stiffly, at last.

 _Aha._ “My general.”

* * *

That morning's not on his mind, not especially, as they barrel towards the First Order’s flagship, he and the two would-be heroes in the cockpit, their eyes brimming with false hope and certainty, and their round, orange droid. A crescent of Haysian smelt hangs around his neck. He’ll do as suits him, as he has always done, unmoved by platitudes, _good guys_ and _bad guys_ , as though that means anything at all, as though it ever has.

But he won’t mind, he thinks, seeing the little zealot again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
